


heroes come and go (the actus reus, mens rea remix)

by descartes



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dubious Consent, Gore, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Kissing, Remix, it's all in lowercase sorry about that, unethical use of mind control powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1569503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/descartes/pseuds/descartes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>power corrupts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heroes come and go (the actus reus, mens rea remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Still Standing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141154) by [amfiguree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree). 



(v tells him, when they first met, that he is special, his power is wonderful, that it is a _gift_.

she is solemn, but her palms are spread open when she says, "you can help a lot of people with what you can do."

and david smiles back, believes her wholeheartedly, her promise kindling a warming spark in his chest.)

#

the stench of blood fills his nostrils, the thick iron-sharp headiness of it clinging to the back of his throat. he knows he'll keep licking traces of it from his teeth for days.

there's so much blood, and most of it has gone cold, life-warmth leeching away into marble and still air. cold, like the freezing hopelessness creeping up from david's fingertips into his veins as he clutches rigid shoulders and stares into unfocused eyes to kindle the embers of a dying will.

_live, live, please live, hang on, keep breathing, the ambulance will be here soon_

but no will, however powerful, can undo a bullet to the heart. it cannot mend a tattered organ or replenish the congealing puddles of blood radiating outwards from a body that needs it badly.

_you have to live, you have to, please please please PLEASE_

_LISTEN TO ME_

_**LIVE** _

the man's mouth jerks open and he gasps fitfully in a final attempt at obedience, but it's not enough; too little, too late.

david comes back to himself to the jumbled cries of his dad and v in his ears, and beyond that the crescendo of approaching sirens wailing into the night. he clambers to his feet, unmindful of his gore-slick knees and the dripping hem of his cape, and stumbles back, feeling like he'd aged a hundred years in the split-second the robber had pulled the trigger.

"i want his name," and he doesn't realize he's spoken out loud until the worried exclamations careen abruptly into a wall of silence.

"oh, david," v says, emotions in her voice almost buried by layers of electromagnetic distortion.

"please," he rasps at nothing—an empty, useless plea.

"we'll talk about it when you get back," she replies.

his dad adds, "come back to us," and a still-warm part of david marvels at how easy his dad does it.

#

when his dad moves forward to hug him but stops, david knows it's because of the ragged crimson smears still clinging to him, but he can't help the way his breath cuts short _(a rattling gasp, even during the last moment he'd tried— no, don't think about it!)_ and his legs fold helplessly beneath him. and his dad's there, pressing him close, safe in the cage of his arms, like david hadn't watched a man die.

his dad's murmuring softly, _it's ok, you'll be ok, i love you, we love you,_ and they're just words, and his dad's frowning like it costs nothing, and that's all right, because that's how it should be.

"i can call the producers up, tell them you're sick," his dad offers, but david doesn't want to lie in bed with the retort of gunfire wracking his insides, and he shakes his head, lets a gentle hand card through the damp hair on his nape.

"i want a shower," he finally says, and it's the truth, the moment it leaves his mouth.

#

after the bank robbery rescue gone wrong, v overrides david's halfhearted protests and tells him she'll take point in the next missions while david recovers. voice kind but absolute, she says, "between idol and this, you're stretched too thin. it's a lousy hero who can't take care of himself."

she calls him often, she and his dad, carefully talking around what he saw in the bank, talking about schedules and training and song choices. his mom calls one evening and he spends an hour in the bathroom, shaking so hard and wanting nothing more than to quit and go home, where there are no guns or longshot dreams to chase.

he stands onstage and sings every week and for a while it's the only thing that settles him. the spotlights are warm on his face and he holds on to the microphone like it's the only thing keeping him upright. funny how being on a reality show makes him feel normal.

#

when cook smiles at him, david wants to fall to his knees. this may be what other people feel faced with david's ability, he isn't sure, or maybe it's the opposite. if cook stops smiling, if his mouth pulls down in a jagged slash, then david's world tilts, as if yearning for sunlight snatched away.

it's unfair, that anyone could be so human and unaware, and have the power to do this to him.

#

when his cape's not draped around his shoulders, armor without protection, it's kept folded in the bottom of his suitcase. v has it laundered once a week, unless it reeks too much of propellant and ash.

after the robbery: she hands him a cape, too-new fabric, stiff-hemmed, and smelling so strongly of bleach his rolled-up socks start to stink too.

#

when david sees cook just as he's about to head out, he barely hesitates before frowning at him to _walk away, you're tired, you need sleep, go_. cook has such awful timing; david doesn't know if it's always accidental every time, or if cook is always just lurking near where david is like a stalker but in a friendly way, or. or if cook, oh no, if cook's figuring it out, like a plucky boy detective.

david sincerely hopes it isn't the last. he doesn't think he can bear ordering cook to forget him.

#

with the last person whose memories david had held fast with the unforgiving curve of his mouth, he'd sung a scrap of song in his head until the last of the ghosts had dissipated from their mind, leaving it blank and smooth and utterly still.

it had taken only thirty seconds to take away a person's entire lifetime, for their own protection, for the greater good.

before, he'd used to struggle, but it's easier now, with practice.

#

 _how many times_ , david thinks, clutching his arms tighter into the curl of his body, _how much more can you take?_

it's so easy, and that's what terrifies him the most. even singing—even the music that he'd fought for so fiercely—has been dogged every step of the way, but it takes nearly nothing to frown and to watch a person yield to the shape of his desires. it only takes a twitch of a muscle for cook to— for cook to be—

even v doesn't know, shaking her head when david asks what would happen if he pushes and pushes and doesn't stop. "no study's ever been done," she says, "we've documented the short-term effects, but the long-term ones are unknown. i guess the best we can do for now is not have you do it to one person too much."

david ducks his head and cups the cellphone in his palm as a p.a. hurries by. "how much is too much?"

hissing, breaking silence on the line. "when the one you can't trust is yourself."

#

cook finding out (or cook not finding out at all but david stupidly handing everything to him on a silver platter) changes, well, it changes the way cook looks at david. the worry deepens into something graver—david is surprised, but then he remembers a dead man's drying blood flaking off his cheek—and there, in his eyes, in the hand that snaps up when david looks at him, a lurking horror.

david can't even reassure him, i didn't mean to _(he means it, that's how it works)_ , or i never didn't make you do anything you didn't _(otherwise what is his power for?)_ , or even i'll never to do it again _(he'll slip, he always does, it only takes one unguarded moment)_ ; he can't even say that he's sorry, because he isn't sorry for protecting what he does and who he loves.

he promises to himself, though, after the first time cook whispers, "fucking superhero," low and warm and amazed at david, like david's the miracle, that he'll never let that fear burst into life.

#

when cook touches him, david doesn't remember for a moment if he'd frowned, doesn't want to remember; he wants this so badly he aches for it, he—

no. nononono. NO.

he can't save a man from dying but he can force another to push him into a bathroom, to span hands around his waist while burning want immolates the tender parts of his chest.

his muscles twitch indecisively when cook looks at him, confusion warring with lust, and that's enough for something to break, in cook or in him, or maybe in them both.

#

(before, in the before that was david knowing he can have what he wanted when he was unhappy, there had been another.

it was summer, and there was a popsicle, and david had wanted it so badly the other boy pinwheeled to ground in defeat. later, much later, the boy had crowded david under the bleachers and david had tasted sweet-sour fruit juice and cherry lipgloss, the same flavor the boy's girlfriend had worn, while david watched in the corridors feeling like a freak.

by then david had known enough of control to will the boy not to remember, and he'd watched the boy stumble to the parking lot before he'd thrown up on the freshly-mowed grass.)

#

his cellphone's in his hand before he can blink, ready for a confession to his dad, to v, to anybody who can forgive him his trespasses.

he isn't some stupid out-of-control kid who uses people like what they want don't matter. he's a superhero, comic-book cape and all. that's what cook says, what he tells david when his eyes aren't over-bright and his cheeks deeply flushed and his fingers skittering up david's back—

—only there because david had seen cook grinning lazily at someone else.

he can't tell v about this, or his dad. especially his dad, who has probably noticed how david's head always tilts towards cook during rehearsals like a weedy sunflower. neither of them know of the little list he keeps, names and faces and reasons why he wishes he can stare into a mirror and think, _stop wanting_ , and he will.

the cellphone goes back to his pocket and david realizes his feet have taken him back to the compound, where he can—and does—shove his face into his knees to keep from crying in peace.

#

it still doesn't stop him from telling cook to let it be with a quick frown, and he tamps down the shame as cook's face goes slack and glassy at his command.

#

(the boy— he and david had been in a class together the next year. he'd sat next to david on the first day with a pleasant smile, bland and ordinary, and had asked him, "hi, sorry, what's your name again?"

david had smiled back; he had no right to do anything but.)

#

 

 

 

 

 

next time, when cook leans in, david thinks, _i'm so sorry_ , and he feels his expression flicker—(yes, no, i want, i can't)—in the instant cook presses his lips to his.


End file.
